Part 4

My attention was engrossed by another object. My eyes were fastened on my neighbor, and my steadfast gaze evidently embarrassed him; for, in a moment, I saw that he turned as red as fire; he began to shift about in his confusion, tried to smile, and at last returned to his own room, taking care to lock the door.

"Ah! Monsieur Raymond, I owe you one for this! we shall meet again!" I said, walking toward his door. Then I turned to answer Mademoiselle Agathe, but she had entered my apartment; and as she was perfectly familiar with the locality, I found her in my little study, nonchalantly reclining on the sofa.

"Do tell me, Eugène, what all this means? Mon Dieu! how things are changed about! the couch in the study; the bed partly tumbled; the remains of a breakfast. What happened here last night?"

"Nothing, I assure you."

"Oh! nothing out of the ordinary course, I understand that. But this couch puzzles me. Tell me about it, Eugène, my little Eugène. Because you are no longer my lover is no reason why we shouldn't be friends."

You are aware, reader, that Mademoiselle Agathe is the milliner with whom I had fallen out because I discovered that she was unfaithful to me. In fact, it was my vexation on her account that had led me to indulge in those melancholy reflections during my stroll along the boulevard on the preceding evening. But since then my susceptible heart had experienced so many new sensations, that the memory of Agathe's treachery had vanished altogether; I had ceased to regret her, consequently I was no longer angry with her. I realized that she was justified in joking me about my serious air, which was not at all consistent with our former liaison, and which might have led one to think that I expected to find a Penelope in a young milliner. So I assumed a more cheerful demeanor, and questioned her in my turn.

"How did you happen to be there on my landing, talking with Raymond, whom you could never endure?"

"But this couch--this couch here in the study?"

"You shall know all about it, but answer me first."

"Oh! I've no objection; I went into the country yesterday with Gerville--you know, the young government clerk who lives on the floor below."

"Yes, my successor, in fact."

"Your successor, call him so. We returned late; I was very tired, and----"

"You passed the night with him; that's a matter of course, and perfectly natural, in my opinion. Well?"

"Why, I had to go away this morning. At half-past six, I crept softly downstairs and was just passing through the porte cochère, when I saw Raymond standing guard at the corner. He scrutinized me, and smiled slyly.--'On my word,' he said, 'I didn't believe it was you; you were perfectly disguised; the fishwoman's costume is very becoming to you, and yet it changes you amazingly. I'd have sworn that Monsieur Dorsan was lying to me.'--I listened, without understanding a word; but your name and what he said aroused my curiosity. I suspected some mistake, so I forced Raymond to tell me all he knew; I haven't stopped laughing at it yet. Raymond was delighted when he found out that it wasn't I who was with you. I asked him if he was certain that your new victim was still in the house. He said he was; for he had passed most of the night on the landing, and had gone on duty at the porte cochère at daybreak. So I came up with him, to make the tableau more interesting; and we waited at least an hour, until it was your good pleasure to open your door. We would have stayed there till night, I assure you, rather than not satisfy our mutual curiosity."

"Gad! what a fellow that Raymond is! An old woman couldn't have done better."

"Well, I've told my story; now it's your turn."

"What do you want me to tell you? You saw a girl leave my rooms, eh?"

"Yes, she was very pretty; a face that takes your eye; rather a large mouth. But that costume! What, Monsieur Eugène! you, a dandy of dandies, caught by a round cap! Why, I no longer recognize you!"

"For what I propose to do, mademoiselle, the question of cap or hat is of no consequence at all."

"Of course, you don't propose to do anything, because you have done enough."

"You are mistaken, Agathe. That is an honest, virtuous girl; she is nothing to me, and never will be."

"What's that? Oh! it's as plain as a pikestaff: she came here to sleep, so as not to be afraid of the dark; that's all!--

"'Go and see if they're coming, Jean!'"

"I realize that appearances are against us; and yet nothing can be more true than what I tell you. The explanation as to the couch being in the study is that she slept in my bedroom, and I slept here."

"For ten minutes, very likely; but after that you joined her."

"No; I swear that I did not."

"You'd never have been donkey enough to stay here."

"I understand that, in your eyes, virtue and innocence are the merest folly."

"Ah! you are not polite, monsieur. But as I have never known you to be either virtuous or innocent, I may be permitted to express surprise at your virtuous qualities, which are entirely unfamiliar to me."

"I am not trying to make myself out any better than I am, and I confess to you frankly that I attempted to triumph over this girl; but her resistance was so natural, her tears so genuine, her entreaties so touching, that I was really deeply moved and almost repented of what I had tried to do."

"That is magnificent; and I presume that the virtuous and innocent orange girl came to your rooms in order that her resistance might be the better appreciated.--Ha! ha! what a fairy tale!"

"You may believe what you choose. It is none the less true that Nicette is virtuous and that she isn't an orange girl."

"Oh! pardon me, monsieur, if I have unintentionally slighted your charmer. Mademoiselle Nicette probably sells herring at the Marché des Innocents?"

"No, mademoiselle; she sells nothing but flowers."

"Flowers! Why, that is superb! Ah! so she's a flower girl! I am no longer surprised at your consideration for her."

"She certainly deserves more consideration than many women who wear fashionable bonnets."

"Or who make them, eh?"

"The argument is even stronger as to them."

"Monsieur is vexed because I venture to doubt the virtuous morals of a girl who comes, very innocently no doubt, to sleep with a young man, who has himself turned Cato in twenty-four hours! Look you, Eugène, I don't care what you say, it isn't possible."

"I shall say nothing more, because I attach no value to your opinion."

"Again! No matter, let's make peace; and I will believe, if it will give you pleasure, that your friend was the Maid of Orleans."

Mademoiselle Agathe came to me and kissed me; she was almost on my knees; she embraced me very lovingly, and I believe that it rested with me to betray my successor, but I had no desire so to do. My mind was still full of Nicette; I was angry with the woman who refused to believe in her innocence and virtue, and who made sport of my heroic behavior. When one has had to make such a mighty effort to do a good deed, the person who seeks to rob us of our satisfaction therein is always unwelcome. So that I received Mademoiselle Agathe's caress very coolly.

At that, the young milliner took offence in her turn, although she loved me no more than I loved her; probably she had never loved me; but in many people self-esteem takes the place of love and, of itself alone, gives birth to jealousy. Agathe put on her shawl, which she had laid aside when she came in, tied her bonnet strings, and gave me a courtesy accompanied by a smile in which she tried to cast an expression of irony, but in which anger and vexation were clearly marked.

"Adieu, monsieur! I understand that the events of last night must have fatigued you; you need rest, and a little solitude; I leave you to dream at your leisure of the brilliant conquest which will furnish you with constant enjoyment from this time on! I beg you to be good enough to give my address to Mademoiselle _de_ Nicette; I shall be delighted to have her custom, in case she should think of changing her style of dress; unless, however, you intend to take her under your protection in that modest gown. I can understand that, to a sensitive and loving heart, the round cap of virtue is preferable to the toque of frivolity."

And Mademoiselle Agathe took her leave, humming:

"'When one knows how to love and please, What else need one desire?'"

VII

A WORD ABOUT MYSELF

Agathe had been gone for a long while, and I was still in my study, thinking of the past evening and night. Somebody opened the door of my apartment: it was my concierge, Madame Dupont, coming to put my room to rights, as usual. As she came in, the good soul did not fail to glance at everything within range; and a woman will see more at a glance than we men can see in fifteen minutes.

Fool that I was! I had forgotten to put the couch where it belonged! that wretched Agathe was responsible for that! But when all was said and done, I was master in my own apartment; I could arrange my furniture as I pleased. I was not in the habit of talking with my concierge, and Madame Dupont knew it. Nevertheless, I noticed that she hovered about me and tried to enter into conversation.

"It looks as though 'twill be a lovely day; that's very lucky, seeing it's Sunday; there are so many people who don't have any other day for an outing!"

"Yes," I assented, "it is very fortunate."

"Ah! monsieur has moved his furniture, I see. Does monsieur mean to leave this couch in his study?"

"No; you may put it back where it belongs; I'll help you."

"I see; monsieur has been trying an experiment?"

"Yes, it was an experiment."

"That's like my daughter, who's forever moving her son's cradle from one place to another. Last night, she put it beside the bed; but my son-in-law wouldn't have it there, because the child's nearly four years old, and it is embarrassing for a husband and wife, when---- Why, your bed's hardly tumbled at all, monsieur!"

"I suppose that I didn't move much."

"Monsieur has already breakfasted, apparently? Monsieur was hungry earlier to-day than usual."

I made no reply, but dressed to go out, being impatient to leave the house. Madame Dupont stooped and picked up something, which she brought to me with a mischievous air.

"Here's a little cross _à la_ Jeannette, monsieur, that I just found beside your bed."

"Ah! give it to me, Madame Dupont, give it to me; I know what it is, I bought it yesterday. I have got to send it to someone; it's to go into the country, to our farmer's daughter."

"It's a pretty little cross; but I shouldn't think it was new."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Madame Dupont."

And I hastily put the cross in my pocket, to hide it from the glances of that accursed concierge, who, finding that I no longer replied to her, talked on all alone, in order to keep the conversation alive.

"They say the girl was very pretty, and that she was crying! That's a strange thing."

"What girl are you talking about?"

"A little thing--a sort of--faith! I don't know just what she was, for I didn't see her. To be sure, she passed my lodge, but she went by so quick! brrr! like a bomb!"

"Who told you anything about her?"

"Madame Martin, Madame Bertin's cook, who saw her when she went downstairs to get her milk."

"Where did the girl come from?"

"Oh!--I--they--that is--I don't know anything about it, monsieur."

The tone in which Madame Dupont told me that she knew nothing satisfied me that she did know a great deal. Raymond had probably tattled to Madame Martin, and she to the concierge. And then the couch, and the gilt cross: I had certainly become the byword of the whole house! Madame Bertin would undoubtedly be the first one to hear about it, and Madame Bertin was the mother of two pretty daughters, whose esteem I was most anxious to retain. And yet it was a generous action, a sublime action when performed by a young man, which was likely to injure me in the opinion of many people. Ah! how untrustworthy are appearances!

I was about to put an end to the chatter of my concierge by leaving my lodgings, when she detained me.

"By the way, monsieur, I beg your pardon--I quite forgot--I have something for you."

"What is it, pray?"

"I had entirely forgotten it; that girl is on my brain. It's a letter."

"A letter! who gave it to you?"

"The postman, monsieur; he brought it last night; you'd gone out, and when you came home it was very late and I was in bed; for I couldn't even see you, and that's how it was that----"

"Morbleu! Madame Dupont, give me the letter, and spare me your reflections!"

"Here it is, monsieur."

I recognized the postmark and the handwriting: it was from my sister, my dear Amélie. But that reminds me that I ought to have told you before this who I am, where I come from, and what my business is. I confess that it never occurred to me; indeed, I should have been quite capable of going on to the end without giving you any further information, and my adventures would have been none the less simple in your eyes; for as I have not to tell of mysteries, murders, abductions, substitution of children,--which always produces an excellent effect,--promenades in the galleries of the West, visits to subterranean caverns, moonlight visions, encounters in murky caves, etc., etc., I shall have nothing to explain or disentangle for my dénouement, and shall be constrained, in all probability, to end as simply as I began.

"But," you will say, "it is always well to know with whom one is dealing; in fact, it is customary to begin with that."--That is true; but I care little about doing as others do, and, moreover, it seems to me that these never-ending stories of births and family anecdotes are not adapted to afford you much amusement; for that reason, I shall be very brief.

My name is Eugène Dorsan; I am of a Parisian family; my father was a king's attorney [_procureur_]; they say _avoué_ now, a title which lends itself less readily to pleasantry. However, my father was a very honorable man, so I have always been told, and I have never doubted it. He earned a great deal of money, to his credit be it said; but he died young, wherein he made a mistake; especially as his death was the result of overwork. My mother was left a widow with two children: my sister Amélie, my senior by a year, and your humble servant. Madame Dorsan was rich; she was in a position to marry again, but she preferred to retain her freedom; she was wise both on her own account and on ours; for, in my opinion, marriage, while a most excellent thing, should be used in moderation.

My sister and I received a good education. We made the most of it, especially my sister, who is naturally amiable, kindly, and gentle, and whose only aim was to satisfy her teachers, and to demonstrate to her mother her affection and her obedience. For my part, I am no phoenix, but I have no glaring faults. My predominant passion is the love which women arouse in me; but as that passion could not develop in my childhood, it did not impede my progress.

My mother had bought a beautiful country estate near Melun, and we spent the summer there. Our childhood and youth passed away without accident or trouble, without any important occurrences, and, I may say also, without sorrow or tribulation. Indeed, what sources of affliction can one encounter before the age of fifteen, when one is surrounded by wealthy and generous kindred?

How I pity the poor wretches reared in poverty by parents whom misfortune often makes stern and unfeeling! Even in the days of innocence, they know the afflictions of maturity; what a pitiable apprenticeship to life!

At the age of sixteen my sister married a young man of twenty-four, a steady, orderly youth and a tremendous worker, who owned a cotton mill at Melun. Three years after the wedding, our mother died. She had economized in the interest of her children, and she left us ten thousand a year each. Amélie, now Madame Déneterre, and her husband took up their abode in our country house; and I returned to Paris, partly to seek diversion from my grief at my mother's death, and partly to complete my acquaintance with the world.

Six years had passed since then, and I had become so attached to the seductive capital that I spent only six weeks, in the summer, with my sister. I had not yet been to her that year, and I assumed that that was why she was writing to me. That dear sister of mine, knowing that I was not over-virtuous, was exceedingly anxious that I should marry, in the hope that that would put an end to my follies; and every summer I found at her house a new young woman, very pretty and sweet and well bred, possessed of abundant talents and attractions and a very respectable dowry. She was presented to me without affectation, but I knew what was in the air. But, despite the attentions of her parents, the eloquent sermons from my sister on the joys of wedded life, and the sighs and sidelong glances of the young lady herself, I took my leave at the end of six weeks without making a declaration.

"Patience!" my sister would say to her husband; "next year, I'll find one who will turn his head, I'll wager."

"So be it!" Déneterre would reply tranquilly; "we'll put it off till next year."

Now, let us read my sister's letter:

"MY DEAR EUGÈNE:

"It is the last of July, and you haven't come to see us yet; can it be that life in Paris has made you entirely forgetful of the relations who love you and think constantly of you and your future?----"

My future! Oh, yes! that means another marriage on the carpet. What a mania it is of Amélie's! always trying to induce me to marry! It is worse than the conventional guardian of comedy. But let us go on:

"It seems to me that you must be tired of those numerous conquests, of those gallant adventures, of those women who have no other guide than pleasure, and who forget you as quickly as they adore you.----"

Aha! sarcasm! You are mistaken, my dear sister; I am not tired of making conquests; those that I make are not all so simple as you think, said I to myself. But in the provinces people are even more spiteful, more evil-tongued than in Paris; and since my sister has left the capital, she takes it upon herself to lecture me. But at heart she is kindness itself! I cannot be angry with her for constantly thinking of me. But where was I?

"As quickly as they adore you. I often hear of you from people who come here from Paris; I know that you are more heedless than ever, that you think of nothing but your pleasures, that you deceive all your mistresses, that they pay you back in your own coin.----"

How well she divines the truth! it is astonishing!

"We never hear of any sensible action on your part.----"

Ah! my dear sister, if you had known the story of the night I had just passed! And people slander me, and call me a libertine!--But you were very, very pretty, Nicette! and I was really entitled to great credit for my self-restraint.

"I trust, however, that you are not incorrigible. Come to us very soon. We have pretty women here, too; they are modest and virtuous, and I should suppose that that would give them an additional attraction.----"

Oh, of course! very pretty women! stiff, affected, prudish, or simpering! And such costumes! In a word, genuine provincials--I need say no more. As for their virtue, it is possible that--but it is not safe to trust to appearances, as I know better than most; for I would have sworn that Nicette was a little wanton.

"My husband sends a memorandum of a few errands he would like you to do for him. He is organizing grand fishing parties for your visit, and I look forward with delight to the prospect of embracing you.

"AMÉLIE DÉNETERRE."

I determined to go to Melun--in a few days. There were several business matters that I must first attend to. Moreover, I should be very glad to know what Nicette was going to do; I was deeply interested in that young woman, and I did not propose to lose sight of her.

I left my apartment and was going downstairs; but I could not resist my desire to speak to my neighbor Raymond. I wished to thank him for his discretion. I rang at his door; no one answered, but I heard a noise within. I rang again, and that time the bellrope remained in my hand. He did not open the door. I felt sure that he had bored a hole in his door and had seen that it was I. No matter: he could not always avoid me; meanwhile, that he might know that it was I who had broken his bellrope, I tied it to my own.

I went downstairs at last; and on the first floor I met Madame Bertin and her two daughters, going to mass.

I bowed; they returned my bow, but with a frigid air very different from the amiable greeting they were accustomed to bestow on me. The two young ladies stood aside without raising their eyes, and the mother's face wore a glacial expression that made me afraid to speak to her.

"This is the result of the infernal chatter of Raymond and Madame Martin and the concierge," I thought; "these ladies know that Nicette passed the night in my rooms; that is to say, the mamma knows it, and that is why she ordered her daughters to pass me without raising their eyes, without smiling, and, above all, without speaking to me."

But you will tell me, the milliner also used to pass the night in your rooms. Ah! that was very different. Agathe was dressed like everybody else, and nobody noticed her; moreover, there were several people in the house for whom she made hats; and no one ever knew certainly whom she was going to see. So that I was able to retain Madame Bertin's good graces, and was admitted to her society, when Mademoiselle Agathe honored me with her favors. And now I was tabooed because Nicette, the pretty flower girl, had passed the night in my rooms. And you know how it all came about. But the world is made that way; it judges by the exterior before it knows what is within. Be whatever you choose, but observe the proprieties; save appearances, and you will be received everywhere.

These reflections made me angry. I left the house, cursing those people who see everything in the same light and refuse to depart from the narrow circle that custom has marked out. I paced the streets angrily, I dined angrily, I drank my coffee angrily, and my frame of mind had not changed when, finding myself at the foot of the Champs-Élysées, I sat down in a chair, the back of which was against a large tree.

VIII

THE MAGIC LANTERN

I had been sitting against the tree for some time; the darkness had dispersed some of the saunterers; and those who remained plunged deeper into the cross paths, seeking, as it seemed, by preference the darkest and least-frequented spots. Doubtless they had their reasons for that. I do not know precisely what I was thinking about, when I heard heavy steps approach and stop behind me. I turned and saw a man carrying what we call a magic lantern. He set his apparatus down against the tree; he had not seen me, or did not notice me. He lighted his lantern to exhibit his pictures, whereupon I at once thought of Florian's monkey; the reminiscence made me laugh, and I prepared to listen to the owner of the lantern, although I feared that the comparison would be unfavorable to him.

I heard him mutter between his teeth as he arranged his lights:

"Ah! the hussy! the rascal! where has she been these three hours, since she left me on the pretext of going to feed the brat? She's playing some game on me. If it wasn't a show day, how quickly I'd drop the whole business!--Never mind, Madame Trousquin, I'll find a way to solve my doubts; and if I see anything crooked, there'll be a sharp and effective reckoning!"